


Real Solution #9

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, dubcon, lap dance, slave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lap dance is so much better when the stripper is crying</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Solution #9

Chester just wanted to take a bath. A bath, a bottle of wine, and then bed. Mergers give him a headache like no other and the idea of being civil to the dickhole CEO of the other company in the morning actually made him want to stab his eyes out. So a bath, a bottle of wine, and then bed.

But of course there was a Brad intervention. In the form of a phone call as Chester rummages through a drawer for a cork screw. He grabs the phone and jabs it between his shoulder and his ear, murmurs, “Hello?”

“Hey. I’m taking you out tonight.”

Chester laughs, “No you aren’t. I’m about to get drunk.”

“Well let’s just say where I’m taking you has plenty alcohol.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Brad.” Chester says, even though he knows the battle is already lost.

“Shut up. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

***

The club isn’t like anything Chester has ever seen before. From the second they step through the guarded wooden door and headed down the mouldy staircase, cracks creeping along the walls and the smell of damp rising in the air, Chester feels uneasy.

“Where are we?” He asks.

Brad just smiles mysteriously and opens the door at the foot of the stairs. Beyond it is a room with a huge circular stage leading off from a catwalk in the centre, chairs and tables positioned around it.

“This is a lap dance club isn’t it?” Chester says, blankly.

“Oh god it’s so much more than that.”

“It cost be ten bucks to get in here. And it’s a fucking lap dance club. Did I tell you I’m gay, Brad? Do you remember?”

Brad rolls his eyes and leads Chester to a table directly in front of the stage and gestures a waitress over. “I remember. I’m not retarded. I got you one of the best people they have tonight. They promised he’d give you a good show. So just calm down, okay?”

“Okay.”

The waitress totters over to them with a tray laden with colourful shots. As she sets the tray on their table Chester glances down at her nose-bleed-high stilettos and then up at her pinched expression.

“Painful, huh?” He asks, sympathising. But the waitress says nothing, she simply totters away unsteadily.

“They don’t speak.” Brad says. “It’s in their contract I guess.”

Chester goes to ask what the fuck but the lights go down and electronic dance music starts to play. It’s out of place. All of this. Chester feels like he is dreaming, sitting in the dark surrounded by old business men drinking vodka whilst techno music plays. None of it fits together.

And then the boy comes out.

His leather shorts cover the legal minimum of him, Chester’s eyes instantly drawn to them and then down to his knee high leather boots with several metal buckles and huge metal heels. Around his neck is a collar fastened so tight his skin is broken, and beneath his gothic stage makeup there is an obvious black eye.

He wants to say something. But everybody is so calm. And Brad, he smiles at him then at the figure strutting his way down the stage, receiving nothing but a blank stare in return.

“His name is Mike.” Brad says.

“You know him?”

“I bought him.”

“You…what the hell?”

“Ssh. Just enjoy it.”

Mike puts on one hell of a show, his eyes never leaving the crowd. As he gets closer the scars on his wrists and forearms become visible. Silvery and secret. And Chester hates his urge to run his tongue over them.

He steps down from the stage and makes his way straight over to their table as another dancer comes out on stage. He stands in front of them with one hand on his hip, the other fidgeting awkwardly at his side.

Brad nods to Chester, “You’re his.”

Mike nods slowly and glances at Chester. “Out here or what?”

His voice is timid and broken, like he’s been screaming for days.

And Brad says, “No. Not out here. And do your fucking best. I’m paying through the nose here.”

Chester watches Mike walk away and instinctively follows, walking out through a beaded curtain to a back room with eight cubicles in it, each separated by a metal door with rust eating holes in it. Mike drags him into one and presses play on the CD player in the corner.

“Mr. Delson said you liked this.”

“White Zombie? Er, yeah I guess.”

“Good.”

They stand there together in the cubicle, just breathing. Chester knows he should sit down. But he finds himself mesmerised by the bruise which encircles Mike’s eye.

“Who hit you?”

“Don’t you want me to dance?”

“No. Um. Yes. But. Who hit you? Someone here? What is this place?”

Mike doesn’t answer, he just pushes Chester down into the seat and untucks his shirt, unbuttons it, and throws it on the ground. He straddles Chester’s lap and rolls his hips forward, the tiny shorts creaking with every movement. On Mike’s thighs are more scars, barely visible but there.

Chester traces them absently with his fingers and Mike looks away, then up at the ceiling.

“Hey. Hey let me take this collar off you. It looks like it fucking hurts.” He brings his hands up from Mike’s thighs to his neck and gets them slapped away.

The dancer jumps up and stares down at him guiltily. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he whispers, one hand going to his neck to touch the collar gingerly, “I really am. I shouldn’t have…”

“Are you…a prostitute?”

“No.” Mike says, lowering his hands and stepping a little closer. “Look. If you don’t want this then fine. You don’t….it’s like you have no idea what you’re here for. But if we don’t stay here for at least thirty minutes they’ll…” his voice falters and he shakes his head, staring at the ground. “They’ll be mad at me. Okay? And I’m losing my voice because of the guy who runs this place fucking my face.”

Chester gets to his feet and bites his lip as Mike looks up, his dark eyes glistening with tears. On escapes and rolls down his cheek, smudging his makeup.

“No. I’m not a prostitute.” He says, pushing Chester back into the seat. “I’ll do you one better. I’m a slave. So just let me fucking do this, okay?”

Chester nods.

And watches bemused as Mike lowers himself back onto his lap, crying quietly.

Whilst White Zombie sing “He cut through the bone, he cut through the wire”

And the two of them, their breath mingling, the both sing, “I’m already dead.”


End file.
